I Was A Good Teacher

I was a pretty good teacher today.  It was one of those weird weather days, the school on a two hour delay because of ice and slush; in our third period class, all but 5 students had left or stayed home.  In fifth period we had 12 of 24.  The kids were working in the computer lab on a writing assignment, a character sketch, an assignment similar to one I used to give to my 12th graders in creative writing.  Their task was to find a photograph and then construct a persona based on their sense of that character from what they see in the image.  The kids were supposed to to focus on showing that character in brief moment.
    Since this was the first time I got to see these kids writing, I hung back and watched their screens from the back of the room.  You can tell a lot about a child by what does and does not appear on their screen in the early moments of writing.  Amelia started writing immediately and in five minutes had filled up most of the screen.  Becky didn’t start writing for a minute or so, but pretty quickly filled up the screen with dialogue.  Tony wrote and rewrote the same sentence for almost 10 minutes.  About five minutes in, Lupita said (as she had said to me before): “I think you should help me with this.”
    So I did.  She was having trouble getting started--as were Genevieve and Kai.  “I can’t figure out the right way to start it.”  I told her to try a little trick--I trick I wold later use with Kelly as well: do not press backspace or erase for the next 10 minutes.  Write whatever comes to mind in the next 10 minutes without pressing erase or backspace.  She got out her iphone, set a 10 minute timer, and started on her way.
    When I proposed that method to Tony, who had been religiously deleting and then rewriting the same subordinate clause, he looked at me like I was insane.  I asked him: “Are you trying to make that one sentence perfect before you move on?”  He sort of smiled.  “How did you know?”
    “I had a hunch.  I’ve been watching you delete that one sentence over and over again.  Poor little sentence,” I joked.  “Maybe you should let it be and move on.”
    He chuckled a little, the first time I had seen this child show any emotion whatsoever.
    He was resistant to the trick, but I asked him to try it out and see how it went.
    Ten minutes later he had almost filled the screen.  I asked him how the strategy worked, and he said: “It’s weird.  There are a lot of misspellings.”
    “How long will it take you to fix those?”
    “A minute or so.”
    “And look at all that writing you made.”
    He smiled.  “Can I fix my mispellings now?”
    “Go ahead,” I said.
   
    I suppose all this begs the question: why did I feel like a good teacher today?  I felt like a good teacher because I had interacted in a genuine, human way with every child in my care.  I asked them questions about what they were doing and why they were doing it that way.  I was able to respond to their questions-- “what does the green squiggly line mean?” “How do you spell ‘terrifying?’” “what are some italian names?”--even though I didn’t always answer them.  I was a good teacher because at the end of the day I know the children better, and they now know me as someone who is there to help them figure out where they are going--at least the 16 kids who showed up today know that.
    I had forgotten how enjoyable it is to talk with young people about their writing.  It’s been a while.  I think I’m probably a little rusty.  But the habits of mind--asking questions, withholding judgment, giving concrete prompts, and, most importantly, showing the kids how they have succeeded at what they were doing--come back like that balance we managed to achieve as children on our bicycles.